Cut, Print, Moving On
by Sylvie Featherfoot
Summary: The After-Smash. In brief, Derek, Ivy, Karen, Jimmy, et. al. Hollywood, Broadway, Off-Broadway. "Bombshell," baby, "Hit List," "Gatsby." For writegirl, gepetto-8, and atatteredrose.
1. Cut, Print, Moving On

"Curtain," Linda said, and the soft sound of scripts closing ran around the table. No one spoke. Scott and Eileen met each other's eyes, nodded slightly, slowly. Derek, frowning in thought. Julia, stunned, almost fearful. Ivy blinking back tears. Simon, composed, watchful. Sam, apprehensive and a little dazed. Ana, Jessica, exchanging glances, Jimmy, lost.

Someone had to speak. Tom, at the piano, "Well -" Derek, as if on cue,

"Right. Well done, everyone. No notes for now. Go home, work on your music, we've got a show."

The universal sigh of relief snipped the last thread of tension, whispering giggles replaced the silence.

"Off with you, then." Kissing his wife lightly. The cast dispersed, the production team gathered. They had a show.

Two years, almost, since "Hit List's" Broadway run had ended. "Bombshell" was still packing in audiences, its third Marilyn Monroe getting better reviews than the second, who had had the misfortune to follow Ivy Lynn.

Karen had left Broadway for Hollywood a few months after the one-two punch of Ivy's Best Actress Tony and Jimmy's jail sentence. Without her glamor and the real-life chemistry she and Jimmy had brought to the production, "Hit List" had folded quickly, but not before Jimmy had sold, shortly before his (early) release, the film rights. For more zeroes than he had ever thought to see. Zeroes that had bought all creative control, leaving him – zero. Jimmy had hated what they had done, to his songs, to Kyle's (and Julia's) script. Had begged Karen not to be a part of it. Had got drunk with Derek, who had also admonished Karen, told her in no uncertain terms she would regret her choice.

Hollywood-clever people. They'd adapted "Hit List" into a semi-musical. Amanda Chambliss (all the "real-life" characters had last names in the film), later singing star "Nina," sang four songs, her rival, "Diva" (no "the," now) sang two. Some of the score was drawn from Jimmy's music, but film-Jesse, played by the flavor of the month, sang only the opening bars of "Broadway, Here I Come," written for suicidal Amanda. "Heart-Shaped Wreckage," sung by Karen alone in voice-over, was the film's theme. Gone, all gone, "Voice in a Dream," "The Love I Meant to Say," "The Goodbye Song." "Reach For Me," gone. Two of Amanda's songs were new-written for the film; both of Diva's were. Pop-crap. Jimmy hated them.

Three of his orphaned songs. Just three. "Good For You," which wasn't even _supposed_ to be good. Cold comfort that the "mixed" reviews (defined by George S. Kaufman as "good and lousy," according to Tom Levitt) had singled out his orphans for praise. Daisy Parker had fared well, too, with the critics. Her Supporting Actress Tony had been juice, Hollywood had scooped her and Karen up in one net. Karen had not been so favored by the reviewers. "As bland a nonentity as her character." "Can sing, can't act, can dance a little." "It is perplexing in the extreme that this characterization garnered a nomination for Broadway's highest accolade." The tone varied, the wording varied, the meaning and melody didn't. Derek had known. Karen live had magic. Karen filmed had none. Cutting the songs and beefing up the dialogue had laid bare her weakness as an actress, stripping off the musical fig leaves. Audiences had stayed away in droves. The film had closed without earning back a quarter of its modest investment. Karen had landed a couple of product endorsements, though not Apple, which her agent had angled for. No further acting offers.

She'd returned to New York, and Jimmy, just two weeks ago. He loved her. Couldn't quite forgive, could never forget. But he loved her. Took her back, at her urging had asked Derek if she could be squeezed into "Gatsby." "She'd be perfect as Jordan Baker – Jessica can still do "Bombshell," Karen needs this!"

Derek had refused. Wouldn't consider it, wouldn't discuss it.

Ivy had performed in "Bombshell" until pregnancy became prohibitive. Had worked non-stop, almost furiously, until labor started, two days before her due date. Television producers filming on the East Coast had practically stampeded her with roles, scripts written and re-written to enable opening credits to boast, "Special Guest Star Ivy Lynn." And, after Miranda's birth, stage roles beckoned; readings and workshops took precedence, although Ivy continued to fatten her bank account and her resume with television roles.

Derek had lain fallow. An unfamiliar, uncomfortable position. Producers were leery of a director who had confessed to replacing an actress giving a well-recieved performance with one who slept with him for the role. Television work there was, a little. In between, he had amused Ivy by attending childbirth classes with her. Later, he changed diapers, warmed bottles while his wife worked.

Tom and Julia, Eileen Rand with them, had come, with a very rough first draft of "Gatsby." Eileen had agreed to produce a workshop. Would Ivy play Daisy Buchanan? Would Derek direct – with Tom's assistance? Oh, yes. Yes, they would, each, and both.

"Are they going to make a fetish out of dying protagonists? First Marilyn, now Gatsby?" Derek was joking, but Ivy spoke seriously.

"Death runs through most of their work. Always has. "Three on a Match?" That was about death, friends dealing with the death of a friend. "Heaven and Earth?" It's _all about_ death. In a funny way, but it's still death. And "Bombshell," yes, and now "Gatsby." It's a natural progression for them."

Her intelligence – he wouldn't admit it was greater than his, but it was quicker. She was right, and he hadn't seen it.

The first draft had begot a second, a third, without achieving the right focus. The songs were uneasily worked in, pieces from the wrong puzzle. The workshop had – well, it had made "Marilyn – the Musical's" reception look like a roaring success. Tom and Julia had fought. Tom and Derek had squabbled and bickered; more than once, Ivy had broken the tension by noting that _she and Derek_ were married, not Derek and Tom, and she'd thank them not to carry on as if they were. Eileen had rippled with tension like a caged tiger.

It had been Ivy who had sent them all back to the drawing board. They were approaching "Gatsby" the wrong way. It wasn't going to work as a conventional musical. Julia had thought "outside the box" when she'd re-worked "Bombshell," even if the final version had differed from that vision. Tom had used a variety of musical idioms for "Bombshell," he should explore that freedom further, instead of limiting himself to 1920s styles. Ivy had suspected, but had not said, that Tom and Julia were finding the material intimidating. They had to not, or "Gatsby" would never get off the ground. And she'd fallen in love with Daisy. The show had to happen.

The resulting book, the songs, were audacious. Chunks of Fitzgerald's narrative were snipped, stitched, patched and embroidered by Julia into prose poems, half spoken, half sung by Nick Carraway. The songs ran the gamut – "No Tomorrow," Gatsby's party guests sang, a Charleston beat with a dark, almost dirge-like note running through it to undercut the merriment. Joplin cadence for Daisy and Nick's duet, "What's a Cousin For?" Gatsby's haunted almost-waltz, "A Light on the Pier." The Daisy/Gatsby counterpoint "Looking Back / Look Ahead," she reminiscing to herself against his passionate plea for their future. Myrtle's fierce "Wanting," Jordan's flip, defiant "(Just a Little) Cheating." Gatsby's wrung reprise of "Looking Back," the last scene before his murder. Nick's closing recitative, "A Grotesque Thing."

Yes, audacious, ambitious, it was. It might – _might_ – be great. It was wildly unconventional – by comparison, "Hit List" had been timid. Eileen had cajoled, scolded, and, in the end, raged. In vain. Investors kept their wallets safely under their bottoms.

It had been Scott who had saved the day, he had sold his Board on "Gatsby." They couldn't turn it down, he told them, willing them with every bit of charisma he could summon to agree. It would be the most important, the most talked about, event in New York theatre – for seasons to come. Even if it wasn't a hit, producing it would add to MTW's prestige. They couldn't lose. Scott wasn't completely sure he believed what he told the Board, but he made them believe, and Huston and Levitt's "The Great Gatsby" became the centerpiece of the Manhattan Theatre Workshop season. Eileen Rand would co-produce.

Recasting, this time mostly with known quantities. Ana Vargas had sung "Wanting," with pure heartbreak underlying Myrtle's ferocity, and been cast without callback. Jessica's audition for Jordan Baker (Ivy had lobbied hard for her) had been a revelation. Like Ivy, the girl had been consigned to the ensemble way too long. An immense talent, and sexy as hell in her sleek, cat-lean fashion. She hadn't been the only possible Jordan they'd seen, but in the end, she'd been the best. And Derek was not going to re-work the casting now for his erstwhile star, Karen Cartwright. Couldn't even come and ask him herself, she'd laid it on Jimmy to do her dirty work. Karen's spell was broken for good, as far as he was concerned.

They'd looked at a lot of Tom Buchanans, and settled on Simon, so good as JFK in "Bombshell." Jay Gatsby had been a problem. They'd offered Michael Swift the role, but he hadn't been available. Tom had been the one who suggested they ask Jimmy Collins to audition. Derek had argued, but had agreed to see him; Jimmy had demurred, but had agreed to read. His audition, Ivy reading with him, had vindicated Tom, and Jimmy was hired.

The audacity carried into the casting, if only once. Sam Strickland was to play Nick Carraway. His audition had been breathtaking, had made any other choice unimaginable. Audiences would have to suspend disbelief in Daisy's black cousin. Sam had never been so close to carrying a show, and was as nervous as he was thrilled. Ivy, New York agnostic, had said novenas for his casting. She'd had to find out exactly what a novena was, but she had done so, and had said one to St. Genesius, who was apparently the patron saint of actors, and another to St. Cecilia, patron saint of music.

And they had gathered, this morning, at Manhattan Theatre Workshop, for a first reading. Unsure how, or whether, this strange collection of wonderful parts would fit together.

Derek thought, on the whole, they would, and well. He didn't have a clear vision, yet, but there was a shape in his mind, and parts of it were coming into sharp focus. Nick. Sam would be the audience's "in," and their guide. Ivy's and Jimmy's voices meshed well. Daisy, indeed, was very clear, and Ivy was looking to him for guidance she had not needed in "Bombshell," which was gratifying.

Yes, he thought, they had a show.


	2. Make an Actor

"Hey."

Ivy turned round, startled out of thoughts of Miranda and dinner. "Jimmy?"

"Sorry. Could we, um, could I – can I talk to you a minute? Not here?"

Ivy hesitated. She had barely seen her daughter – awake – in days, but there was need in Jimmy's tone. And Paulette wouldn't clock out for another two hours. Her "Sure" came out simultaneously with his

"Please." They laughed a little.

"Let's get a drink." Oh, it was a relief to be able to drink again. Pregnancy, nursing (and pumping). Over now.

Melio's, less than a block, was already the cast's usual spot. Like a boy in an etiquette class, Jimmy sat Ivy at a postage-stamp table, fetched his tap-beer and her Pinot Gris. She sipped, waited. He stared into his glass, turning it round and round by the base. Looked up.

"Do I need some acting lessons here?" In a rush. "I mean, I haven't acted since high school, except "Hit List." You guys, you're all, I mean, you know what you're doing, you all do, and I don't. I don't have a clue. So, tell me. Do I need to get some help with this?"

Oh, dear. It was true, Jimmy was a little more at sea than the rest of them. She picked her words very carefully, they had to be both true and tactful. "It might help you feel more confident, if you got the right lessons. The wrong ones might be worse than none."

He pulled out a piece of paper. Frowned at the writing. "Ana said Jenn Campbell was good. That's her coach."

Ivy shook her head. "No. Absolutely not. Jenn's great, I've taken from her, but she always tries to start new students with a complete re-build. From the ground up." Whether they need it or not. "You're in rehearsal, you can't afford the time." _We _can't afford the time. "If you're serious, you should try John Paul. He's good, he lets you start from where you are, and he gets great students."

"Like George and Ringo?" There was that bad-boy smile.

"How did you know?" She grinned back at him, but his smile faded.

"Ivy, tell me the truth. Am I kidding myself? Can I – maybe I should – just – I don't know."

Her pause was so long he thought it an answer. She sighed.

"Jimmy, if you don't know the answer to that, no-one does. That's the truth. For what it's worth, I think you can do this. I read with you at the audition. I saw "Hit List." We're only a week in, we're all feeling our way. And the songs – you're doing great with those. You know you are."

"They're good songs. They seem like they'd be hard to sing, but they're not. And," there was the smile again, "anyone who can't sing with you can't sing, period."

"You know, you're nothing like" it was said before she realized she was speaking. Couldn't she have said thank you, and left it at that? She could have smacked herself.

"Like I was? Nothing like four months in jail to give you time to realize what a jerk you are. I didn't want to stay that way."

There wasn't a way to answer that. And Miranda was waiting. "I should really go."

"Sure. Yeah. I know, your kid's waiting." A not-bad-boy smile, very slight. "Thanks, Ivy."

"Anytime." Surprised to find she meant it. "If John Paul says he can't fit you in, tell him to call me, OK?"

"I will. Yeah. Thanks." He looked at her, squinted, as if she were out of focus. "You're a terrific lady, Ivy."

Now, _that_ she knew how to answer. 'You're not so bad yourself – Mr. Gatsby." She patted his shoulder. "See you tomorrow. And don't _worry_. That never helps. Believe me, I know."

Jimmy watched her go. If he was "nothing like" he'd been before, Ivy was nothing like he'd expected. Karen was, had to be, a little biased, sure, and he'd allowed for that, he thought. But he hadn't been prepared for Ivy's kindness. Or how good it felt to work with her. She was so _there_, even in these early days, when her eyes, like his, like everyone's, kept dropping to the script. When he was acting with her, he didn't feel so damned inadequate. The rest of his scenes, though . . . he'd call this John Paul. He'd try the class. How did it feel, he wondered, to be as good as she was? Could he be that good? Ever? He could at least try to find out.


	3. Roadblock

A hell of a monkey wrench.

Too perfect, too smooth, it had been. Tom grieved for the brief span of halcyon days, even more for the reason they'd ended.

The jitterbug of nerves that had been the workshop had given place to a gavotte of courtesy. The exemplar of which was, of all people, Derek Wills. The leopard doesn't change his spots, at least, not all of them; Derek was still an autocrat, still devoted to his vision above all else, but he treated the rest of the production staff, and the cast, if not quite as colleagues, at least not as obstacles. And he was, almost unfailingly, polite. Polite for Derek, anyway. No-one knew better than Tom how profound a change that was.

Tom hoped he'd never get to a place where he wasn't proud to bursting of "Bombshell." If I forget thee, oh Israel. But he knew his score for "Gatsby" broke new ground. And Julia's book – God. Her scenes, pearls knotted each to the next by Nick, distilled Fitzgerald's essence. She could absolutely have made "Gatsby" a straight drama, and a fine one.

Derek was doing something truly beautiful with Ivy. In this production, Daisy Buchanan's hallmark was delicacy. A quality you could fail to associate with Ivy Lynn, until you realized you saw its manifestations every day, every hour. That Derek saw it in her, appreciated it, was taking pains to bring it out, was almost worth forgiving all the past.

"The audience has to see Daisy as Gatsby does," Derek had, astonishingly, expostulated in the early days of the rewrite. "She's not a person, she's a symbol, to him, of all that's lovely, all that's desirable, everything that isn't his life, that's _above it_, before, and now. She can't be a real person, to the audience, until she kills, and betrays him, and even then, it's got to be through his eyes."

If Derek's description, those words, in his mouth, had conjured the ghost of a name other than Ivy Lynn's, Julia and Tom had never acknowledged it beyond a single shared glance.

Tom wasn't AD on the production, after all. Not officially. But – part of this strange dance – Derek spent time, once or twice a week, discussing the production with him, from a directorial standpoint. Why he was doing what he was. How each choice impacted each character.

Tom appreciated the effort. He knew he had a lot to learn, if he was to pursue directing. At the same time, he had ideas of his own. Derek listened, considered Tom's suggestions, sometimes for as much as five seconds before rejecting them.

Mark Castle, their George Wilson, had come to them. In pieces. His wife, Elisabeth, had seen a doctor for her headaches. Tests, more tests. Then more. Brain tumors. Cancerous. The planned surgery held out small hope, but they had to try. They had two children, the elder six.

Scott and Eileen, helplessly, released Mark from his contract.

They hadn't even scheduled auditions when the call came. Word got round fast. No less a light than Porter Mallory, six-time Tony nominee, two-time winner, so very sorry to hear about Mark's poor wife. He'd be pleased if they would consider letting him step in as George Wilson.

He was a good fit for the role, his casting would be a huge coup, his presence a draw. His experience, his professionalism, would guarantee a relatively swift integration. They should thank their stars, so Scott and Eileen argued. Tom, Julia, Derek siding with them, were less certain. Star-power like Porter's, in a small role, however vital, could upset the balance and focus of the show – perhaps fatally. Derek didn't voice his worst fear – that Porter Mallory would outpower Jimmy. Deadly, that would be.

And they shouldn't kid themselves. George Wilson's one number was a brief reprise of Myrtle's "Wanting." That wouldn't do for Porter Mallory. They'd need at least one new song, and where would it go?

Tom and Julia would see what they could come up with for George Wilson, as possibly-to-be played by Porter Mallory. Eileen would call his agent back, explain, and ask for a couple of days' grace.

"And _no-one_ is happy," Eileen fumed, reaching for the telephone.

Scott shrugged. "That's what "compromise" means. We're happier than Mark."

Eileen sighed, annoyance wiped out. "If we're not, we damned well ought to be.. Let's pass the hat. Arrange a benefit."

"They'll need it."


	4. Career-Shaped Wreckage

Karen hung her coat up. An empty loft. Jimmy had bought the building with the money he'd made selling "Hit List." She lived with him in the space he'd shared with Kyle. The rent-roll made Jimmy self-sufficient. Karen wished to God she were.

She was getting work now, cutting demos. Karen knew she should be grateful, but recording studios were claustrophobic, isolated. She _hurt _with longing for a real audience.

It wasn't every day you got a compliment worse than an insult. Before they'd got started, the young phenom producer had shaken her hand like he was pumping water.

"I've listened to 3 of your demos, you're amazing!" he'd gushed. What's so great about you," with genuine enthusiasm, pumping all the while "is you don't try to put any spin on the songs. You just sing the words, the notes. Not trying to do anything else, no character overlay, no interpretation. You're so basic! It's exactly what we're always looking for, and we almost never find it. You're just awesome!"

If he'd slapped her face, it would have been less humiliating. Glad the song was a melancholy one, she'd done the job she was being paid for. She needed this work.

There were modeling offers. Several. Karen didn't want to take them. She knew she was pretty – very pretty. Most people said beautiful. But she'd never traded on that. Had really wanted never to have to.

And, truth to tell, when she looked in a mirror, all she saw were flaws, failures. What she'd thought – assumed – was a staircase to stardom had proved a magic-carpet ride. The carpet had been yanked out from under her. She'd fallen a long way. Landed on her face. Flaws, failures.

She'd had one "acting" job. A cable commercial for a Queens hot tub retailer. Four locations! Flushing, Forest Hills, Little Neck, Rockaway! They'd been thrilled beyond measure to have a real Broadway star promote their little business. "Dear Miss Cartwright! We're so honored!" Rushing to get her tea, or coffee, soda, anything (she'd liked the egg creams). It had been balm. For a day.

But there were too many days.

After Jimmy had insisted on taking acting classes, Karen had halfheartedly followed suit – a different school, a short-term scene-study class with a famous director. It had all seemed a little juvenile, unnecessary. The director had listened intently to her monologue, had spoken at length. Nothing he'd said had made sense. She'd watched, listened as the other students showed their work, and been critiqued. It was Greek to Karen.

She'd picked an actress she'd thought was very good; suggested a scene. They'd got together to work a couple of days later, and Karen had tried to make common cause of their teacher's bizarre style of communication. Her partner had, very gently, tried to translate for her. Without lifting the veil an inch.

At the next class, she'd done her scene. The teacher had given her a couple of comments, looking at her intently. Then addressed her partner. One couple did Blanche and Stanley in "Streetcar," the rape scene. The class was invited to comment. "I think we should see more that Blanche really feels attracted to Stanley," Karen had volunteered. The teacher had barely let her finish before "I wanted particularly to note the _lustful_ glance you gave Charles, Caroline, right before you told him to pull the curtain." To Karen, "You really didn't feel that?" The question was put straightforwardly, but it had to be hostile, Karen was sure. It was frustrating not to know _why_, or _how_, she was being snubbed.

He pulled Caroline aside for further notes as the next scene was set up. Close to Karen. "I want to see more precariousness. Stanley is cutting every support from under you." Caroline nodded tensely, "So, it's like being knocked up one step on the rickety ladder with each exchange? Until there's no more up, and the wind is blowing, and then crash." "Exactly!" He was triumphant. And what was any of that supposed to mean? For that matter, what would Caroline, who was younger than Karen, want to work on Blanche DuBois for, anyway? That was a role you played when you were over the hill. Stupid, stupid.

Karen had stuck it our for two more classes before saying "to heck with it." All the classes did was make her feel bad. She certainly didn't need _more_ things making her feel bad. She was a good actress. She was a Tony nominee. How many of them could say that?

If she could just connect with – touch – a real production. She had to talk to Derek. There was so much buzz around "Gatsby." He'd give her something, surely, if only an understudy position.

She had to talk to Derek.


	5. Enter, Porter Mallory

As if scripted. Enter, Porter Mallory, beaming. Famously ugly features, rendered attractive by extreme, good-humored intelligence. Body thick with muscle. Jimmy followed, not beaming; it was somehow puzzling to note he was actually the taller, by an inch or so.

Porter's smile embraced each of them; the deep voice was soft, light-toned when not on stage.

"Eileen! Unmarried life suits you," kissing her hand. Julia he embraced; Porter Mallory and Michael Swift had co-starred in last season's _very_ failed attempt to make a hit musical of "The Untouchables." It had run three weeks in preview, two in performance. Porter's Al Capone, and Michael's Elliott Ness, had been acknowledged stellar performances. Some of the songs had been deemed acceptable. It had been enough, given the timing of the production, to garner Drama Desk awards for each, and for Porter, his second Tony. "Law of the Land" was now a staple in Michael's repertoire; Porter was near-sick of "Chicago Businessman," so often was it requested.

"Miss Lynn! Miss Ivy Lynn! An unexpected pleasure – a real lagniappe, as we say in New Orleans. Your most ardent admirer," he kissed both her hands with flourish. "I saw you in "Bombshell," no less than _six_ times. A magnificent performance. The first two, I brought a date, but it wasn't fair to ask anyone to compete with you."

Ivy, surprised as much as flattered, thanked him prettily, agreed it might indeed be considered unfair to ask his dates to live up to Marilyn, given the different chromosomal arrangements involved. She was there at Jimmy's request, the only other cast member present.

Smile and handshake for Linda. Scott, Derek, Tom, greeted with compliments - "Bombshell," "Hit List," "Gatsby."

"You've cast so cleverly. I cannot wait to see them all in action."

Derek growled. On the subject of action, could they get down to it? Porter and Jimmy were ready; they'd marked through it twice together. Tom and Julia, drawing to an inside straight, had magicked a royal flush, Derek thought. There was a new, brief song in Act I, "Gears, Grease." George's single verse and bridge were picked up by Myrtle, a new intro to "Wanting." The reprise was replaced by "Deathlight," cadence and melody variations on "Gears, Grease," equally brief.

Gatsby's desperate reprise of "Looking Back" would now have its own counterpoint. Stage right was Nick's living room; stage left the garage. Jimmy would sing his first verse. Lights up on the garage. George would begin "Close the World," they'd alternate two-line bits for the next verse; the bridge rewritten to be sung by them both; then one-lines, tempo increasing, overlapping, end notes vibrating together.

Julia had unsnarled it. The men, Gatsby and George, were both grieving lost loves. "Close the World" would see George Wilson implacable in despair. Vengeance and suicide, one, two, and done. He might take out, clean and load his pistol as business. Gatsby, clinging anguished to a hope he knew forlorn.

Derek had hand-held Jimmy that morning, telling him to use whatever emotions arose, put them into the music. Telling him a lot of things, each of which had made Jimmy sicker with fear; Derek, in exasperation, had tried one last angle.

"Look, he's basically going to show you his wanker. Show him you've a bigger one." Jimmy had laughed, which was something.

The two actors sat, apart, on folding metal chairs with folding metal music stands in front of them. Tom played opening bars; Jimmy's voice lifted, fell silent. Porter Mallory took up the counter. Separate men, utterly alien, unwittingly merging in anguish.

Porter might have been rehearsing the number for months. Jimmy's raw power was stunning – and new.

"May I take it I'm in?" Porter spoke into the silence.

Scott and Eileen spoke almost in unison. "We'll call your agent." "We'll draw up the contract."

"Gatsby" had dodged a large-caliber bullet. Hell, yes, Porter Mallory was in.


	6. Snapshots: Downtime

Eileen had wanted rehearsal this Sunday. The benefit for Mark Castle was next day, Monday being "dark night," and they'd had one single run-through. Derek had vetoed it. Every one knew what they needed to do for the benefit. And the "Gatsby" cast needed to breathe for a day. He hadn't needed Ivy to tell him so – but when she had, it had been rather sweet, her soliciting what he was already determined on.

How stardom became her. Motherhood, too. He had seen her, now, turn everything to account – failure and success, bad luck and good. She'd vanquished her demons. And still she was Ivy, the girl whose opening up in callback had wrung his core, had opened a door he could never close afterward.

Two polar bears swam a vertical ring, round and round, over and under, the plexiglass a fishbowl. "Bearbowl!" Miranda giggled. She loved the polar bears, their whiteness, their watery, icy world. "Ghosty bears," she insisted on calling them. "Ghosty bears," Ivy cooed back at her. His golden girls.

Ivy had been singing softly as she'd dressed Miranda; Derek had caught "biffalo buffalo bisons, and a great big bear with wings," A.A. Milne's poem and a baby-tune. "But I give buns to the elephants when I go down to the zoo." Lovely, her soft singing. Dancing their daughter to him. Derek's heart turned over, for the – how-many-thousandth? – time. "Daddy Daddy Daddy," Miranda patting all over his face with her tiny hands. Ivy as unabashedly delighted as the little one.

A family day.

Karen wasn't happy. She was working steadily, her days filled with demos and catalogue shoots. She didn't complain. She didn't say much of anything, in fact – and since Jimmy didn't want to rub her nose in "Gatsby," and Karen was impatient with talk of acting classes, they barely spoke at all, outside the daily stuff. Can you pick up milk on your way home. It broke Jimmy's heart.

Ana had reached out to Karen, he knew, and been rebuffed. It annoyed Karen that Ana had rented Ivy's old Hell's Kitchen flat. Everyone was where the lights were, except her.

Tom had spoken to Jimmy about the exhibit, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. A history of musical theatre, with a great number of hand-written scores. Notes on staff paper, placed there by hands named Gershwin, Berlin, Porter, Kern, Rogers. Jimmy had found himself wanting to see them, those notes.

It had taken half the morning to convince Karen. She never wanted to go anywhere now, wouldn't go to see friends' shows, Jimmy could barely get her to go out for burgers. But he'd persisted, cajoled, pleaded – he'd never been to the Museum. They could take a little blanket, or something, pick up some sandwiches, have a picnic in the park after. "Please, can't we just get out of our heads for one day? Do something different, go somewhere? It'll be fun . . ." Maybe she'd agreed just to shut him up, but at least she had agreed.

They'd jounced and rattled the long subway ride.

Julia, Michael and Tom sipped mimosas as Porter Mallory whisked drops of Crystal hot sauce into hollandaise. Bach's Third Brandenberg played very softly, an elegant background.

"Won't be another minute, darlings," as he tossed sauteed crabmeat with diced avocado, heaped it over thick slices of tomato on warmed plates, set on the table a basket of napkin-wrapped cornflour biscuits. Removed poached eggs from their bath, laid them gently atop the mounds, spooned sauce. "Tom, will you give me a hand here, please? Thank you very kindly."

Julia thought perhaps Porter was moving, slowly, easily (everything he did breathed ease, an ease that testified to mastery through past effort), toward courtship of Tom. Little things – asking Tom's help in serving was one. Smiles a hint deeper, tones a shade warmer. It would be interesting, if she was right, to see how Tom reacted. For all his near-trademarked boyishness, Tom had played lead in his past relationships, had been the one with power. Porter Mallory was no subordinate.

"Oh. Mygod." Tom spoke around a mouthful. Delicious. Porter laughed. "If we understand two things in New Orleans, they are music and food. Oh, and sex, of course. Three things, then."

Julia chimed, "No-one expects the Spanish Inquisition!"

"Darling Julia, you just watch yourself now, or I will give you the comfy chair."

Comfy. Elegant. Porter's small Central Park West apartment was both. Antique chairs and sofa, neither ornate nor fragile, easy alike on eyes and buttocks. The glow of good wood, well cared for. Library bookshelves, filled with well-worn volumes and record albums. Porter had no CD player, preferring, he said, an actual aural capture to a digitized translation.

Ambiance, food, wine, music. The company. It was a hot-tub for the soul.


	7. Sunday in the Park

It had been an awful mistake, taking Karen to the exhibit. If he could do the day over, anything else. Tom hadn't told him. A small, screened area, devoted to "Bombshell." He could see the sense of it - "Bombshell" was a current hit, and definitely in the "traditional Broadway" style of musical that was being celebrated. But Karen was a walking wound, these days, and this was a lot of salt.

Jimmy had tried to steer her past, when he'd seen. Karen had insisted. Had made him rent the headphones, to listen while the video played. Tom's score, Julia's book. A mannequin of Ivy in white. Then the video, a little, totally weird, warped history of the production, with a silly fruity voice narrating over stills, mostly. Shots from the workshop, "fraught with difficulties," intoned the voice, over a shot of Karen falling off a platform. Stills of Rebecca Duvall in Boston. One shot of Karen in costume, held for a second before Ivy and Broadway took over, the voice noting that "Karen Cartwright, understudy for Rebecca Duvall, completed the Boston run; Ivy Lynn, who created the role in workshop, was brought back for the Broadway production, winning an Antoinette Perry Award for her performance as Marilyn Monroe."

The video ended with an actual film clip. Ivy, singing "Don't Forget Me." Jimmy didn't watch it, he watched Karen. She didn't take her eyes from the little screen. Nothing on her face. Nothing, as she watched herself practically wiped out of existence, in this show that had meant so much to her.

Jimmy hadn't thought he could hurt for her any more than he already did, but this was too much. "It's like you weren't anything to "Bombshell!" This totally sucks!" He was so angry for her. What did these idiots know, anyway?

Karen shook her head. "Let's face it, Jimmy, that's about right. Things might have been different, but they weren't. Can we please go get some sandwiches? You promised me a picnic in the park, and I'm hungry."

It was the most she'd said in weeks. "Sure. Me, too. Let's go."

So easy, playing Jay. Pour out what he felt for Karen in life to the Daisy Ivy created onstage. Speak to that. That was where he had the inside track, that was what he brought to the table. Jimmy knew he was going to be good in the role, the acting classes had helped, and had, as Ivy said they might, given him confidence. But acting wasn't his future. He had known, looking at those scores. There, with them. That was where.

They didn't know the neighborhood, had walked blocks to find a deli. Bought too many sandwiches, and laughed as they walked back to the park. When Jimmy took her hand, Karen hadn't pulled away, but clasped back.

Smoked turkey, ham and cheese, roast beef, shrimp salad. Pickles, potato chips. Little egg custards in foil cups. The deli had had chilled white wine, plastic cups and a corkscrew. Jimmy would have preferred beer, but wasn't about to say so.

They found a spot in the sun, spread the blanket, and the food on it. Karen reached for a sandwich, Jimmy took the hand. "Karen, I'm really sorry. You have to know know I didn't know. I'd never have – I'm – I love you – so much."

"I know, Jimmy. It's OK. I love you, too. You're the only good thing I have."

Eventually, Miranda had allowed herself to be torn from her bears, and they wandered, without plan. Derek lifted his daughter high to see the red panda, asleep on a branch. "Raccoon, Daddy? Funny _big_ raccoon."

"No, darling, that's called a red panda. It is, however," reading the card, "related to raccoons, which makes _you_ a _very_ _clever_ _girl_."

Miranda dissolved in giggles, shook her sturdy little body vigorously. "_Not_ panda, Daddy. Panda _bears! _Silly Daddy." All three laughing as they left the funny raccoon, strolled toward the sea lions. More water and plexiglass, Miranda's eyes big, head tilting as two adults swam with a baby. "Mommy and Daddy and Manda!" she pointed.

Ivy scooped her up, squeezed, kissed her. "Yes, precious girl, just like Mommy and Daddy and Miranda. Can you say thank you to Daddy for giving Mommy the day off, so we could all come to the zoo?"

Set down, Miranda curtseyed gravely, then held out her hand. Derek shot a quizzical glance at Ivy, who shrugged; took the little hand in his. Miranda wagged their joined hands with all her might. "Thank you for zoo, Daddy!"

By the time they reached their Fifth Avenue flat, Paulette would have lunch ready. Derek pushed Miranda, who murmured "seepytired" as her eyelids closed.

"Oh, shit," Jimmy stopped gathering lunch remnants, and Karen looked behind her. _No, no, no_. Not now, not today, _not them, not like this. _She'd left Derek four messages, texted twice, before giving up. Too much, too desperate, despite the jauntiness she'd tried to assume. But she'd clung stubbornly to the conviction that Derek wouldn't, couldn't give up on her. Hadn't she been his muse? She knew she could be again. If she could just talk to him. But Derek obviously didn't intend to give her the chance, and she'd pinned her last hope on waylaying him at the benefit.

She wasn't ready, after the exhibit, didn't have her legs under her to deal with the happiness radiating from the little family group. They hadn't yet seen Karen and Jimmy. Could she escape? No, not realistic. That would look too weird, to everybody. Suck it up. Put on your best smile. Who said she couldn't act? She and Jimmy advanced.

Awkwardness all around. Karen squatted to peer at Miranda, still sleeping. "She's really beautiful," her eyes going first to Derek, whose "thanks" was unsmiling. Ivy said, "I hear you're cutting lots of demos – that's great, you have such a beautiful voice, they're lucky." A little hesitant, as if she had to fit the words together like puzzle pieces.

Karen smiled, added her own "thanks," feeling she'd swallowed a big lump of lead. Heavy in her gut, poisonous. At least Ivy hadn't seen the catalogues. Or if she had seen them, had the tact not to say so. Which was unlikely, since it was Ivy. Why wouldn't the blonde want to rub Karen's nose in her comedown? Ivy had Derek and wealth and stardom, a Tony, a beautiful baby girl. A starring role in the most talked about new musical since "Bombshell" and "Hit List" had flooded New York like twin tidal waves. Karen remembered the feeling of the world at her feet. Now at Ivy's feet. She, Karen, left with demos, modeling, Greenpoint anonymity. And Jimmy. Crumbs and scraps. She shouldn't feel that about Jimmy, but she sort of did, in her heart. You can't afford to feel that, she admonished herself. You need Jimmy, he's all you've got.

"Miranda's a pretty name," Jimmy offered. Derek and Ivy spoke together,

"One of Ivy's first paying gigs was a summer Shakespeare festival."

"It's Derek's mother's name." Laughing, again speaking over each other,

"And it was one of my first roles."

"Miranda was also my mother's name. She's Miranda Leigh."

Blue eyes opened. "Mandalee. Mommy, up!" Little arms stretched, Ivy bent and gathered her out of the stroller. Eye to eye with Jimmy, Miranda touched his face with a finger. "Not Daddy."

Jimmy laughed. "Got that right, kid. I guess you're pretty smart, huh?"

"Smart." Miranda nodded, serious. Ivy and Jimmy grinned at each other.

"Sorry about this, Ivy. Your day off, you don't need to see me. I should have thought about it – this is your turf. And the whole day was a mistake."

Ivy shook her head, shrugged, "It's Central Park, I don't own it. And what are the odds we'd meet up? What brought you up this way, though, can I ask? There are much closer parks in Brooklyn, aren't there?"

He winced. "Tom was talking about the exhibit. About musicals, at the museum? He didn't tell me they practically had a shrine to "Bombshell." I'd never have brought her." Both glanced, a little furtively, at Karen. Talking to Derek, who wore an impassive face. Ivy breathed in, out, and turned smiling back to Jimmy.

"You didn't return my calls," Karen tried a lightly chiding tone. Banter, right?

"I've been busy, Karen." No smile, the ball lay at his feet, not the slightest effort at a return.

"Derek, we need to talk."

"Maybe _you do_."

"OK, I do, then. Please, Derek. Please. There's so much I need to say to you."

He sighed. "I'll call you after we open, alright?."

"Can't we talk tomorrow? At the benefit?"

"I don't expect I'll have time." She was so crestfallen it was almost comical. Almost. Derek felt a faint twinge of guilt. Karen did have some right to think he'd be on her side. His fault.

"We'll see. Ivy, love, we should get Miranda home for lunch. Are you hungry, darling?"

Miranda nodded. "Hungry, Daddy."

A round of goodbyes. And _that_ was over.


	8. Evensong

Riding the subway in silence – as much silence, anyway, as the New York subway system would allow. As they waited to connect with the "G" train, Karen finally spoke.

"What were you and Ivy talking about? I had no idea you were so friendly." Jimmy had heard that resentful tone before; he stomped down irritation. The whole disastrous outing – she'd behaved damn well. No wonder if she broke a little, now.

"Just telling her I was sorry she had to deal with me on her day off. Ivy's helped me a lot – she's been really great."

Karen nodded, as if to herself, and said no more.

For dinner, they'd eaten the remaining sandwiches. Soundtrack the rustle of unwrapped paper, chewing. Karen's eyes on her food. She didn't look up as she said, hesitating,

"Jimmy? Could I – please – have a little space? I'm sorry, I'm just –" she stopped, looking at him now, frustrated, lost, helpless. And so sad.

"Yeah, OK. Sure. I understand." He didn't, not really. But if she needed space, he'd give it to her. He shrugged his jacket on. Kissed her. Karen made the kiss a quick one, but huddled in Jimmy's arms for a second, burying her face in his shoulder. He hugged her tight. "It's OK. It's all OK, Karen."

And he was on the street, walking. Once more on the subway to Manhattan. Jimmy secretly liked the subways. The snaking tunnels, the rattle of the wheels. They spoke movement, action. He didn't know where he was going; he just wanted to move. Changed trains, left Greenpoint further behind.

Up into the dark air. Walking again. And now he knew. Took out his phone. All the "Gatsby" contacts were programmed in. Pushed "call."

After brunch, Tom had strolled with Julia, Michael and Porter a few steps ahead. "Deathlight" needed some tweaking, they agreed. "Dead Lights," maybe? Both syllables given equal stress; play on "headlights?" Yes, perhaps that. They'd see.

Change partners, walking with Porter. "It is just inconceivable to me that you've never been to New Orleans, cher. You _must_ come and visit. New Orleans is like no other city. You just _must_ come – for the music, at least."

"I can just see myself in sequins for Mardi Gras," Tom laughed.

"Do come for Mardi Gras! One of the three essential New Orleans visits."

The other two? "You must come for Christmas – we light up every bit as much as New York, but it's a very different magic. And in the summer, in the still, damp heat, when there are no tourists. I am quite serious, Tom, I've plenty of space for a guest. I would so love to introduce you to my town."

Tentatively, with caveats – who knew, at this point, where "Gatsby" would take them? – Tom had agreed.

He was at the piano, finessing the cadence for "Dead Lights," when his phone rang. Jimmy calling?

"Hey, Tom, I was wondering if I could buy you a drink? Where's a good place?"

Tom didn't really want to go out; why didn't Jimmy just come up?

As Tom made drinks, Jimmy looked around him. Posters, photographs. Oh, God, Kyle among them. Yes, this was Kyle's sort of place. He could almost see him three-dimensions, hear his voice. The lump in his throat wouldn't be swallowed. Nor would the tears stay in, as he stared at his dead friend's smile. Sounds, something being set down, and a loud sniff. Tom's arm around him, they wept together, Jimmy's pain for Karen and the day mixing with his grief for Kyle, pouring out.

"Well, that's one way to break the ice." Tom grinned crookedly at him. Jerked his head toward chairs, handed Jimmy a glass. "What's up?"

"Did you know?" Tom looked blankly at him. "The exhibit. The musicals. The scores. Did you know?"

Ah. "I wondered. Something about the way you take the songs, it's a different appreciation."

"You're not telling me I should keep my day job, not do acting?"

"No. You're a good actor. I'm the one who suggested you for Gatsby, remember? I just thought maybe that wasn't what you really love. I was right, wasn't I?"

"Yeah." But . . . "I haven't written anything since -"

Tom nodded. "You will, I think. In time."

"It's just, it's hard, you know? Kyle was – he – he could make me see, make me hear what I wanted. He was always smarter than me. And I don't know how to do it without him. You know? When someone really "gets" you that way. And then they're gone."

Tom did know. He'd almost lost his partnership with Julia, through his own stupidity. Lucky for him he hadn't. Jimmy would find another partner, Tom said. It wouldn't be the same, he couldn't expect it would be. But it would happen.

He went to the piano. "We're re-working "Deathlight" a little. What do you think of this?" Playing the new cadence. Jimmy listened, frowning.

"Yeah, yeah, that's good. That's really good. Maybe a C-sharp, there?" He touched the score to show. "Make it pop, you know?"

A good ear. By the time Jimmy left, late, "Dead Lights" was something Tom could take to Julia.

Derek stood in the doorway, listening as Ivy sang Miranda's favorite bedtime song - "Moonshine Lullaby." An unlikely Annie Oakley, his Ivy. But so lovely, her rendition.

Paulette was now live-in. Ivy hadn't wanted that, had resisted until it was impossible to argue Derek was wrong. She just didn't have the time. Time Miranda needed. Even if she was going to start spouting Hatian-French any minute.

Scrambled eggs for supper, toast, bacon, wedges of tomato. Tomorrow the benefit. Elisabeth Castle had survived surgery, a small miracle. Still not conscious, two days after, but that wasn't unexpected, apparently. Still critical, but the tiny hope was the smallest bit bigger.

No mention of the sloe-eyed elephant in the room. High road, Ivy.

"You and Jimmy seemed awfully chummy, what was that about?"

Ivy's mouthful of wine spurted out her nose, burning, bringing tears along with the laughter. She breathed, tried to speak, but out of her mouth came nothing but more laughter, and more.

"What's so funny? What?" Derek's honest perplexity set her off again.

"Nothing. Nothing at all. Oh, Derek, I do love you." Still she couldn't stop.

"I love you, too, darling, I just wish you'd let me in on the joke." Infectious, her laughter, he was laughing, too, in spite of himself.

"Life's the joke. Just – life." She reached, he took her hand.

Held fast.


End file.
